Tag: guard kill

The guard glanced down, carefully placing the rugged soles of his combat boots so that he avoided making a sound. The tightly-laced leather footgear fit him snugly, especially the right one—he kept a blade hidden there.

He was young, but he was trained and confident, an efficient killer. His hard lean body vibrated with violence and testosterone; it oozed out in his sweat and soaked into his tight-fitting clothing.

The boy’s cold dark eyes glittered as he squinted and scanned the underbrush around him. Black tactical gloves tightly gripped his modified AK-47, ready to spring to action at the slightest alert and spit swift burning death.

He was prepared to do it. He was paid to guard, not to question what he was guarding or why. He was there to kill anyone he saw. It was a job he was good at—a job he enjoyed.

He was twenty-three and just under six feet tall. He kept his russet hair short for strategic purposes; long hair gives opponents a grip during hand-to-hand combat. He flexed his muscular legs, encased in black military-grade cargo pants; above, a skin-tight black compression t-shirt camouflaged his broad chest

The young merc was very familiar with hand-to-hand combat—he’d already had the experience of killing a man and watching him die, kicking, in his arms. He enjoyed it—it got him hard. He knew he’d found his place in life. He loved killing, and he loved getting paid to do it.

So here he was, peering into the woods for intruders—and desperately hoping to find some. He didn’t know what behind him was so important or who was supposed to be coming to jeopardize it; it didn’t really matter. He was getting paid good money and he had the chance to take a life.

Cold and arrogant, the hard young merc’s cruel eyes glinted as they attempted to pierce the shadows. Half-hard at the thought of killing, he really wanted someone to be there.

Someone was there, but not the someone the guard wanted.

Mac was so close to the young hardman he didn’t need the night vision goggles anymore; in fact, he could almost reach out and touch the punk. The gun was that only reason he didn’t—at the moment, it directly (if unknowingly) at Mac, crouched deep in the underbrush a yard away. So he paused. This kid was young, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.

Slipping his hand down his own thick, muscled leg, Mac gripped the hilt of the Ka-bar combat knife hidden in his boot sheath. He silently withdrew seven inches of razor-sharp carbon steel, darkened so it wouldn’t reflect any surrounding light, not that that was a problem in this situation. Mac could see his target, but just barely. It was enough, though—enough for him to see the kid turn slightly to the side.

Mac’s body, taut and hard with well-trained muscle, was a killing machine; it sprang onto action as if a switch had been flipped. In the blink of an eye, death came to the young mercenary—swift, brutal agonizing death, but not so swift that the hardman wasn’t aware of what was happening.

He heard Mac first, of course, as the professional killer launched himself from the underbrush, and pivoted to face the attack. He wasn’t fast enough—a sudden blow from behind knocked the gun out his hands; at the same moment a gloved hand was clamped across his mouth, the fingers digging in mercilessly as the powerful hand clench tightly.

The merc was stunned by the lighting attack; the overconfident punk had thought himself equal to anyone. He needed to shift his weight, if he could grab this fucker’s arms and tuck under just right, he could throw the dude…

Then Mac yanked his head back and pressed the blade against the boy’s throat. The hardman, young, but experienced, had just enough time to realize what he was feeling when the older, stronger—better—killer began cutting his throat.

Even with a sharp blade, it took Mac a few second to saw through the punk’s windpipe. The flesh itself parted easily, but the trachea was tough and rubbery; Mac was forced to tighten his grip on the unfortunate merc’s face to vise-like intensity. He cut through the thick tube of cartilage as the youthful hardman’s muffled squeals increased in pitch and intensity before subsiding into a desperate, wheezing gurgle as the esophagus was penetrated.

Mac kept up the agonizing, inexorable pressure, his fingers brutally clutching the dying kid’s face, until he’d slashed the boy’s throat open practically to the spine. Then the ruthless killer planted the thick sole of his utility boot on the kid’s ass and shoved him forward. As the dying merc stumbled forward and fell to his knees, the silent specter of death slipped back into the darkness.

The guard’s hands flailed desperately at his torn-out throat, fingers clawing at the horrific wound. Things were going gray and cold; the vicious punk had done this to enough men to know what was happening—he was bleeding out. Some dark corner of his mind, as it faded to black, wondered if his assailant had had a hardon…

As the thought crossed his panicked mind, the young merc lost control of his bladder. As hot piss flowed down his legs into his boots, he voided his bowels helplessly, the earthy stench of bodily waste mixing with the hot coppery smell of blood on the cool night air.

Then the icy nothingness stole in and the kid flopped forward. He died alone in the dark, spending his last few seconds on earth drowning agonizingly in his own blood, his face planted in the mud.

Frank wondered what Joey was doing. He wasn’t worried about the boy; the kid was a professional and could take care of himself. He’d known that from the moment he’d seen the kid’s cold, soulless eyes.

Frank’s face was colder and more soulless. He was thirty-eight and had been a hired mercenary since he’d left the Marines fifteen years ago. He knew that Joey could handle himself because he was good judge of men—how hard they were and how tough they’d be to kill. Joey had reminded Frank of himself at that age—young, hard, and full of hormones that drove a bloodlust. Joey got off on killing, Frank had realized, just as much as Frank did himself.

The experienced hardman had smirked at Joey’s tactical gear, though—it was the mark of an amateur. Frank himself had dressed his strong, sinewy body in more casual clothing—tight jeans tucked into a pair of plain black leather combat boots. A dark t-shirt under a brown leather jacket completed the ensemble, along with a gray knit cap over his short brown hair.

He was armed as well, holding his AK-47 up and at the ready. From a thick black leather belt around his waist hung a twelve-inch scabbard containing a massive hunting knife. Peering into the underbrush, Frank was caught up for a moment in a gliding beam of moonlight that glinted from his cold green eyes and darkened the shadows on his lean, hard face. His grim, tight-lipped visage was an archetype for a hardened killer.

And he had no idea that within five minutes, he’d be nothing but mangled, quivering meat, cooling on the forest floor.

The attack was swift, silent, and brutal. Mac had approached within five feet of the guard, letting the man pass by him before springing out from behind.

Frank was taken by surprise, in more ways than one. He’d been sure enough of his own skill that he’d neglected some basic precautions—a final lucid moment of regret for is arrogance that flashed across his mind as a powerful arm wrapped around his throat and yanked him backwards, off-balance.

Frank knew the move; he knew what to expect—he just wasn’t fast enough to stop it. The muscles in the small of his back tightened—a useless move. His fall was broken, as he expected it would be, by the razor-sharp tip of a blade that pierced his leather jacket like it was wet paper.

Before Frank could react, nine inches of sharp icy steel had penetrated his back just below the ribcage, the serrated edge of the blade slashing effortlessly through the merc’s flesh, muscles and organs with only the slightest change of resistance to indicate the type of tissue it was cutting through.

Not that anyone needed to be told. Mac knew he was slicing through the hardman’s kidney and spleen because that was where he was aiming.

And Frank knew, because he could feel every inch of it. Just to be sure, though—and to keep his target immobilized by shock—Mac twisted the blade viciously, reaming the sharp cutting edge and cruelly honed serrations deep inside the merc’s shuddering body.

Adrenaline flooded Frank’s system in an uncontrollable wave as he rose up, his feet curling in agony involuntarily inside his boots. When Mac jerked the knife back out, he slashed it wide, almost literally cutting his way out; only the shock prevented Frank from screaming in horrific pain.

Then, before the shock subsided, Mac put an end to Frank’s ability to make any sound at all. Whipping his arm around in front, the dominant killer rammed his blade down with a swift, powerful motion. In a split second, the long wicked steel shaft pierced Frank’s chest, slicing between his ribs and puncturing his heart like a balloon full of blood. The dying hardman gave a loud grunt as the impact to his chest drove the air out of his lungs—then was unable to inhale again.

All Frank found he was able to do was shudder and suffer silently in the crushing iron grip of the rock-hard warrior who was neutralizing him so efficiently. He trembled for a few seconds of mind-bending pain as his quivering heart sliced itself into lunchmeat on the blade impaled in his chest.

Then the jerking sack of meat that had moment before been a talented killer slid to the ground. As Mac rolled the corpse onto its back and withdrew his knife, the dead man’s boots combat carved furrows in the dirt as the body kicked mindlessly in its death throes. Mac had vanished back into the woods long before the cooling pile of meat stopped shuddering.

There was one guard left, Mac knew—and he knew he needed to interrogate him. Mac had been assigned to retrieve a certain item located in a structure ahead. This last guard would know where the item was inside. Based on the intel he’d received, Mac knew that last dude knew more than the others—and was more dangerous.

The last guard was in his early thirties. He’d dressed completely in black, much like Mac had, to become almost invisible in the shadows under the trees—excellent camouflage for a hunter.

A tight black jumpsuit emphasized the hardman’s tight, muscular body; around his slim waist a webbed utility belt was wrapped. Two knives, a pistol, a baton, and several less identifiable weapons dangled from it; the merc was prepared to inflict swift, brutal death one anyone he targeted. His combat boots were black waterproof fabric with rubber soles that allowed him to move quietly.

He was good, but he wasn’t too good. Above his hard, handsome chiseled face, a few golden curls had escaped from under his black knit cap. They glinted in the moonlight—just enough to catch Mac’s eye.

He shifted slightly to the right, centering himself on the guard, who was still unaware of his presence. He wasn’t unaware for long, though.

The hardman heard a faint stirring to his left and whirled to meet the threat, only to find that he was half a second too slow. A swift shadow split from the surrounding darkness and slammed him up against the tree behind him. A large powerful hand in a leather glove clamped over his mouth. The tips of the fingers were free; they dug painfully into the guard’s cheeks as his lips were sealed. At the same time, the guard felt the icy touch of a blade at his throat; the knife was still razor-sharp despite being stained with the blood of two men.

“Awright, motherfucker,” Mac growled in a gruff whisper. “I’m gonna ask some questions and yer gonna answer. Gimme a bad answer or no answer and you’ll be gargling yer own blood. Ya feel me?” He lifted his hand from the man’s mouth.

“That was a bad answer,” Mac said quietly and, clamping the dude’s mouth closed again, stuck the knife into his flank. It was a controlled thrust, only about an inch and a half deep—just enough to pierce the jumpsuit and the guy’s flesh and puncture the oblique muscles. The merc gave a loud grunt, his face grimacing in pain—that part of it not covered by Mac’s glove, at any rate.

“I can do that a hundred times with killin’ ya,” Mac said. “Start talkin’. You know what I’m here for—where is it?”

“I might let ya live—if you’re helpful enough. If not, you’re gonna die slow and hard, asswipe.” Mac pressed the blade against the hardman’s throat again, this time with more pressure. A thin line of slowly-trickling red appeared. “All I have to do is press a little harder and you’ll be bleeding out like a fuckin’ stuck pig. Now talk, damn you!”

The guard knew death was staring him in the face, and acquiesced. “There’s a cabin two clicks to the east,” he said sullenly. “It’s in there.”

“How many men between here and there?”

“None, man, we’re it. No one’s s’possed to know it’s here. How the fuck did you find out?”

“Wrong,” Mac said evenly and buried his blade to the hilt in the merc’s belly, all seven inches of cold steel piercing the hardman’s firm flat abs and sinking into his belly.

The guard gave a deep, despairing moan, his hands clutching at Mac’s wrists in a vain attempt to pull the knife back out of his guts. His eyes, wide with shock, turned to those of his killer’s. “I-I cooperated,” he gasped in frantic confusion, “I did wh-what ya wanted…”

Gripping the merc’s shoulder tightly, Mac used his other hand to rip the knife upwards, slashing open the dude’s torso. It took a few seconds of nightmarish agony for him to saw his way through the well-built guard’s abdominal muscles, but Mac was powerful enough to hold the man down and gut him like a deer.

Stepping back, Mac held his knife up. The hardman stared in horror at the blood-streaked blade, curls of flesh dangling from the serrations. His hands had been clenched to his belly in pain—for some reason, he reached out to Mac at this point, his hands outspread in a futile supplicating gesture.

It was his last mistake. As soon as he let go of his torso, there was a loud slurping thump—and the dude’s intestines slid out of his sliced-open abdomen, landing in a stinking, quivering pile of tangled meat on the dude’s own boots.

His back still to the tree, the guard slid down to a sitting position, his lap full of his own guts. He looked back up at Mac as the latter approached, but the dying man was too far gone in shock to speak. He could only look up as the stronger, more expert warrior spoke.

“Stupid fuck,” Mac muttered, “All alike, you young punks. Think yer hot shit, but ya fold like a pussy the minute things get tough.” And with that, he unzipped his fly and drew out his dick. As the merc started to fade out, he could see his killer was holding the blade in one hand and his semi-hard cock in the other; both were seven inches long.

Things went gray for a moment, but suddenly warm liquid was splashing in the hardman’s face. With a great effort, he opened his eyes for the last time—to see that the man who had successfully interrogated and wasted him was expressing his final contempt by pissing all over him as he died.

“Ain’t worth takin’ time for a piss break,” Mac jeered. Then the guard’s eyes dilated. He shuddered violently under his golden shower for a few seconds, then slumped over onto the ground, his own piss flowing out to mingle with that of his killer’s.

Mac stuffing his dick back into his jumpsuit, Mac turned to the east. He still hadn’t decided if he’d wait in the cabin till morning; part of him wanted to give whoever showed up a vigorous, violent welcome.

They didn’t know who the client was. Sometimes the client was private and sometimes it was a government contract. It didn’t matter. All they needed to know was who the targets were and whether they were supposed to die easy or hard.

This job, they were supposed to die hard.

The targets were a couple of drug lords. Intelligence had it that they were meeting in a neutral location to work out a territorial dispute. They had kept security light— some local punks who hadn’t been able to pay their tabs.

Mac grinned as he sighted the first sentry. He and Bill were gonna enjoy this. The actual targets would be done too quickly—a couple of taps to the head and it’d be over. But the men standing guard–oh, yeah, this was gonna be fun.

Mac and Bill had over a hundred kills of this kind between them. They’d worked out a method that involved incredible precision. Mac had found on an earlier kill that if a knife enters the target’s brain at a certain point and depth, it strikes an area that controls orgasm. The target will drop like a rag doll and cream his jeans on the way down.

He’d practiced it on his next few hits and when he felt confident, he demonstrated it to Bill. It had been on a job south of the border. Bill had already whacked his target—a Mexican hardman who gagged and coughed his life away in Bill’s arms after his throat had been slit.

The sentry Mac was going for was a young man with dirty jeans and combat boots. He wore a tight black tee which covered the handgun tucked down the front of his pants. He’d heard his buddy’s dying gasps and started moving in that direction. Mac had come behind him and clamped a hand over the guard’s mouth; ramming his razor-sharp knife into the guy’s kidney. As the hardman stiffened in agony and shock, Mac had called Bill and had him watch as he lifted the man’s chin and slammed the knife up through the guard’s jaw, puncturing his tongue and soft palate and piercing his brain. After seeing the massive, sticky wet spot form in the dying man’s crotch, Bill had been a willing and able student of form.

Now it was time to send these two punks out the same way.

Mac saw that Bill had the same hard grin as he did. This was gonna be real smooth. These two were practically kids, barely old enough to buy their own beer. Hardman wanna-bes. The wanted to be men; they were gonna die like men. And it was gonna hurt.

The two mercs had gotten close enough to overhear the guards. From their conversation, they had learned the names of each. Danny was short and dark, with shoulder-length black hair. He was wearing tight jeans and hightops, but had no shirt covering his well-developed chest. Bobby was the other one; he was practically a skinhead, with a razor-thin goatee. He was wearing a white wifebeater and showing the tattoos on his muscled arms to an admiring Danny. At the start of the conversation, Bobby had pulled a bag of weed out of his boot and fished papers from the back pocket of his jeans. They had passed a joint back and forth while talking about how fucked up they’d gotten and how many bitches they’d reamed out. When they finished, Bobby had rolled the each their own before they split up.

The warriors’ smiles got tighter. High on guard duty—these two were the definition of ‘young, dumb, and full of cum.’

Time to let that cum out.

Bobby was walking further up the road. Mac trailed him silently, timing the kill.

The hit on Danny was quick and brutal. It was over in an instant, but a lot happened in that instant.

Danny had just taken a lung-busting hit of his own from the joint when Bill grabbed the hair on the top of his head and pulled it back. At the same time, he brought his commando knife upward into Danny’s exposed jaw, slamming it home into the punk’s brain. Danny’s eyes opened wide with pain and fear as his cock swelled and began spurting uncontrollably. The dying punk jerked backwards several times, grinding his ass into Bill’s crotch before going rag-doll. Bill lowered the still-twitching corpse to the ground and turned to follow Mac.

Mac was crouched down in a ditch about ten yards behind Bobby. Bobby was fucked up—he’d been hotboxing his joint and had smoked it down in less than two minutes. Mac wasn’t worried about cover; the guy was too stoned to have any reaction speed.

Mac crept in silently for the kill. About ten feet behind the guard, he pulled his knife from his boot sheath.

He jumped forward quickly, one hand clamping the punk’s mouth, his fingerless leather glove forming a seal to muffle any noise. The other hand pressed the knife into the base of the guard’s head. There was a resistance, then a slight crunching sound as the tip of the knife penetrated the base of the skull. After that, it slid in smooth and easy.

Bobby’s reaction was immediate. He stiffened in a seizure that jerked his body erect. He arched backwards and his eyes rolled back. A grunt was forced out that was muffled to a moan by Mac’s glove.

“Shut up and die, motherfucker,” Mac whispered in Bobby’s ear.

In the dark buzzing vortex of his swiftly-diminishing consciousness, Bobby somehow knew that while he was being told to shut up and die he was spunking so hard it was agony.

After that, there was nothing left but the convulsions of brain trauma. Bobby thrashed violently, his boots digging furrows in the dirt. Mac held him tightly and reamed his knife into Bobby’s brain. The punk shuddered and went limp in Mac’s arms. Mac lowered him to the ground and wiped his knife on the corpse’s shirt.

Looking up, he saw Bill had been enjoying the show. They quickly regrouped and pressed on. There were at least two more guards between them and the final targets.

Things got quiet after they left. The dead meat that had been Bobby still kicked a little as random nerves fired. One of these kicks dislodged the bag of weed in his boot.

Danny’s body lay on its back, glazed eyes staring at nothing. Down the left side of the face was a small trickle of blood from the nose and another from the corner of the mouth. The body occasionally gave a slight twitch, the hightops scraping the dirt.

Mac and Bill crept silently up the road, leaving the piles of twitching meat behind them to rot.

Three hundred yards down, a sound to their right made them freeze. There shouldn’t have been any more guards this far out from the target, but intelligence had been incomplete before. Mac sent Bill further down the road to reconnoiter and went to investigate the sounds himself.

Moving silently through the underbrush, Mac emerged suddenly into a clearing. Right in front of him, leaning against a tree, was a young guard beating his meat. This was Frank.

Frank was wearing an open shirt-sleeve work shirt over his tight white undershirt. His jeans, opened at the fly to display his fully erect cock, were tucked into his dirty, slouched work boots. In his right boot was a half-ounce bag of weed—it was their advance pay for guard duty.

Frank was higher than a kite and had been thinking about the bitch he’d banged in an alleyway last night as he jacked himself. Precum was just starting to ooze from his mushroom tip when merc materialized in front of him. Franks bloodshot eyes widened as he tried to focus on the man who was going to end his life. The guy was wearing all black, from the cap on his close-shaven head to the tactical gloves and the combat boots.

Then bright pain exploded in Frank’s face.

Mac had been caught slightly by surprise, but hadn’t hesitated in wasting the punk. He’d stunned the little fuck with a line-drive punch straight from the shoulder. The steel knuckles built into his gloves added power to the blow.

Frank, semi-conscious, reeled away from Mac. His cheekbone was broken and his lips split. His dick, forgotten but still hard, bobbed in the wind.

Mac stepped forward and slid his left hand under Frank’s left arm and across his chest, grabbing his right shoulder. He reached his right hand around the back of Frank’s head to grab his chin from the left and pulled both of his arms back violently.

There was a cracking sound as Frank’s vertebrae shattered and his spinal cord ruptured. His head was twisted 180 degrees and his stunned, terrified eyes were staring directly into Mac’s.

Frank’s body stiffened and shuddered. His muscles went rigid involuntarily, forcing a geyser of cum to spew from his dick. Faint gasping sounds escaped his lips as he struggled to draw air with muscles and lungs that had stopped working.

There was another shudder and another fountain of spunk. Then Frank’s legs gave way, his boots buckling at the ankles and digging out paths in the dirt. Mac held him all the way down, starting into his eyes. The last thing the punk saw as his wasted life slipped away was the merciless face of the hard man who’d offed him.

Kneeling on the dead meat, with his leg on the corpse’s ass and his gloved hand pressing strongly on the blank, staring face, Mac paused and listed. These fucks usually traveled in pairs.

Sure enough, there was a rustling sound ahead and a little to the left. Mac moved quietly back into the woods, leaving the body in the clearing behind him to stiffen. After a while, the cum dried, leaving the corpse with glazed eyes and glazed thighs.

Mac was moving quietly parallel to the road. About ten yards beyond the clearing where he’d left Frank’s body, he was brought up short by a motorcycle hidden in the brush, with a helmet hanging from the handlebars. The sound he was tracking was louder now, and seemed to come from his right. He moved off in that direction.

It didn’t take him long to find the other guard. He was taking a leak into a small stream, with his back to Mac. This one had a shock of unruly black hair and a gold loop in his ear caught the light. He was wearing a white t-shirt tucked into tight leather pants cinched by some kind of metallic belt. The leather pants, in turn, were tucked into high biker boots. This one was young, about nineteen or twenty.

Mac slowly reached for the length of nylon cord in his pocket. He looped it around the kid’s neck in a flash and pulled hard.

The punk, as high as the others, hadn’t seen it coming. He flailed wildly, struggling for breath. Mac tightened his hold on the guard’s windpipe and braced himself as his victim fought—vainly—for his life.

The punk had some fight in him, too. He spent some time grabbing ineffectively at the cord digging into his neck, but Mac was pulling it violently and it was embedded in the flesh. That was when the kid panicked.

He stopped struggling with the cord and reached up, trying to connect with anything that would release his agonized throat and let him breathe again. In his terror of death, he lost control of his bladder. His dick was still out and the piss dribbled down his leather pants onto his desperately kicking boots.

The guard’s flailing hands batted aimlessly at Mac’s face and caught at his arms. Out of the corner of his eye, Mac could see that the stupid little fuck had a tribal armband tattoo. Then the victim’s hands were in his face again and he decided enough was enough.

He kicked the guy’s boots out from under him and kneeled to follow him down. The guard was now sitting on the ground with his legs jerking out in front, boots tearing up the dirt and leaves. Mac could see the pot leaf emblazoned on the punk’s belt buckle. He wondered if the kid had any idea that he was going to die wearing it when he put it on today. He gave the cord a hard tug and there was a crunching sound.

Mac knew he could let the punk go now; his windpipe was crushed and he’d be dead in sixty seconds no matter what. But he held on, watching the guy’s flaccid cock suddenly swell and turn a vivid purple—the same purple as the guard’s face. A foamy trickle of saliva escaped past the kid’s swollen, protruding tongue. His hands had stopped beating violently at Mac’s face and were moving slower, almost caressing him.

The punk’s random jerking became a rhythmic convulsion. With each spasm, the kid shot a load and he shot hard. Mac felt a splatter of semen on his cheek. The guy shot his next three loads into his own face. Cum dripped from his dull, half-open eyes down over the tip of his tongue and off his chin.

Mac held on to the wetly pulsating meat for a little while longer before removing his cord. He had to tug at it as it was buried deeply in the guard’s throat. He turned and left as quietly as he had come, on his way to rejoin Bill.

The silence that settled over the kill after Mac’s departure was only broken by the death throes of the corpse. These became fewer over time, but with each spasm, a slight trickle of sperm leaked out onto the leather pants.

Mac found Bill near what the map had marked as the last turn in the road. Beyond this point, the road ascended in a straight line to the cabin where the final targets were supposed to be located.

Naturally, there were another couple of guards around the bend.

Bill had already scoped them out. He told Mac that he’d gathered from their conversation that they were brothers. The younger brother wouldn’t give them any problems—he’d only come along to get high and would be easy to drop. The older brother, with bright red hair, would be tougher. He’d worked for the targets before and acted as if he knew how to handle himself. He didn’t, but he could still cause problems.

Mac went carefully forward and checked them out. They were standing by the far side of the road. Both had dressed similarly in tight black shirts and tight jeans. The ginger guard was in his mid-20’s and had his shirt tucked into his jeans. When he turned his back to Mac, he could see a 9-millimeter jammed down the back of the guy’s jeans, the handle out for access. Ginger was wearing combat boots and thick leather bands around his wrists, one of them holding a watch.

Junior was about 18 or 19. He was wearing a ball cap and didn’t have his shirt tucked in. He was squatting with his back to Mac, who could see that the kid was going commando. He’d tucked his jeans into ropers.

Mac returned to Bill.

“I found two more guard back there,” he said.

“Any problems?”

“Nah. They kicked a little. But we need to get one of these to talk. Need to find out if there’s any other surprises.”

Bill grinned.

“Good cop, bad cop? It’s my turn to be bad cop.”

They sprang out simultaneously. Bill went for Ginger, kicking his legs out. The guard fell to his knees with Bill behind him, one hand clenched in his hair. The other held a knife at the side of Ginger’s throat.

Junior had risen and was facing Mac when he jumped. Mac slammed the kid back into a tree and pressed hard on him, gloved hand over his mouth. He too had a knife, pointed at Junior’s belly.

Bill yanked up on Ginger’s hair.

“Ok, you little cocksucker, talk!”

Ginger snapped back, “Fuck you! I ain’t tellin’ ya shit!”

Bill hadn’t expected him to. He turned to Mac with a smile.

“He says he don’t wanna.”

Mac eased his pressure on Junior’s mouth just enough to let him speak.

Mac leaned forward, pinning Junior to the tree with his full body weight. He forced Junior’s head to the right, giving him a direct view of his brother.

“Watch what happens if you don’t talk. Go for it, Bill.”

With a violent jerk, Bill thrust his knife into Ginger’s throat, the tip coming out the other side. The sharp serrated blade tore through the punk’s vocal cords and windpipe, neatly spearing the adam’s apple.

Ginger made a choked gurgling sound. His face was a mask of pain and terror.

“Watch him,” whispered Mac into Junior’s ear, “watch him die.”

Ginger’s hands flailed helplessly in front of him. His body jerked and shuddered as a pink foam began to leak from the corners of his mouth. He sagged forward. The only thing keeping him from falling face down in the dirt was Bill’s hold on his hair.

Bill had gotten rock hard. He pulled Ginger’s head back into his groin. In his last few seconds alive, Ginger was dimly aware of only one other thing beside the agony of death—the sensation of a hot iron rod covered in fabric pressed against the back of his head.

Mac eased up on Junior’s mouth again. “Now talk, bitch,” he growled. “How many others between here and the cabin?”

Junior started crying—they’d been right; he was the weak one. When he spoke, it came out in one long gasp of terror, all at once.

“Ohfuckdon’tkillmepleasedon’tilltellyaanythingohfuckohshit,” he pleaded.

“Quit babbling, you little shit and tell me—anyone else between here and the cabin?’

Junior gulped hard and just barely managed to control his panic. “No one, dude,” he sobbed, “just them two dudes that went up there and the guys driving their cars—I swear. Fuck, dude, don’t kill me—I told ya what ya wanted to know. Oh God, please don’t kill me!’

Mac clamped his hand back over Junior’s mouth and turned to Bill with a grin.

“Whaddaya think?”

“Nah, he’s useless. Waste the little fuck.”

Mac turned back to Junior. “Sorry, kid,” he said with a smile. “If he says I gotta waste ya, I gotta waste ya.”

Junior stared at him with terrified eyes, He began struggling, tears running down his face.

Mac stabbed his knife upwards into Junior’s belly. Even with Mac’s gloved hand firmly covering his mouth, faint screams could be heard.

With a single controlled jab, he rammed the knife up through Junior’s jaw and tongue, embedding it in the soft palate. The intense burst of agony combined with the shock of the gut stab had halted Junior’s struggle. He stood shuddering, his eyes wide.

Mac jammed the knife up into the kid’s brain. Junior’s eyes dilated, then rolled back so only the white could be seen. His tight muscular body arced forward, grinding his groin into Mac’s. Mac felt Junior’s hard dick rubbing against his own through several layers of fabric, getting him hard as well.

Then he felt liquid on his balls and the base of his cock and knew that the kid was cumming so hard in his dying moments that the spunk had soaked through. Mac lost control and shot his wad. As his own jizz spread over his belly and the kid’s cum oozed onto his balls, Mac skullfucked Junior with his knife, reaming in and out and shredding the kid’s brain.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mac saw that Bill hadn’t been able to control himself either. Still holding Ginger’s corpse by the hair, he’d positioned the body so it was facing him. He pulled his long rigid dick out and stuck it in Ginger’s mouth. A quick, violent facefuck and Bill growled, then gave a low groan, sending ropy strands of his spunk over Ginger’s mangled larynx. He was still oozing when he pulled out, sperm mixing with the blood drying at the corner of Ginger’s mouth.

“Sorry,” muttered Bill when he noticed Mac watching him. “Just seeing the two of you…well…”

“Don’t apologize. I didn’t know it would be like that. We’ll have to find a way to get ourselves off on every kill. Why should we let these fucks have all the fun?” As he finished saying this he kicked Junior’s blank staring face with his steel-toed boot.

“Yeah,” said Bill. “Shame we can’t have much fun with the targets. But I still got more spunk of my own to let out.”

“Don’t worry,” replied Mac. They cleaned themselves using the shirts of their dead fuckbuddies. “I think we can still have some fun during cleanup.”

They started climbing the hill in the direction of the cabin.

The approach to the cabin was difficult. Just a few yards past the spot where Ginger and Junior were turning cold and stiff, the line of sight forced them into the treeline—Mac and Bill could be seen from the cabin if they stayed on the road. The need for silence slowed them, especially if the two “drivers”—more likely professional killers—were outside.

They were. One of them was clearly a hardman type. Well-built, with thick short dark curls, he wore a white t-shirt and jeans, both skin-tight. His camo-patterned cap was backwards and his combat boots were desert camo.

The other guard surprised the mercs. He was about 18, little more than a kid. A black wifebeater showed tattoos on his muscled arms and pecs. His strong legs ended in colorful expensive sneakers. They later found that he was the nephew of one of the targets. He’d killed before and thought he was a major bad-ass. Mac and Bill agreed not to kill him right away.

They had plans for him.

The guards were standing between the cabin door and the cars, which were parked parallel to the front of the building. By keeping low and moving carefully, Mac and Bill had reached the other side of the cars, where they split up.

Bill whipped around the rear of the car and put the kid’s lights out. A lightning-fast blow to the jaw knocked the boy out.

The kid grunted when he got decked and the hardman heard. He turned towards Bill and opened his mouth to say something. He never had the chance. Mac was on him immediately, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other slashing mercilessly at his throat with a knife.

The hardman fell to his knees, hands grasping his throat. A look of horror and disbelief was in his eyes—he’d cut the throats of several men himself, but he didn’t know the pain and terror of watching his life spurt out. He tried to scream in agony but no sound came from his mangled larynx. The only noise was the uncontrollable gasping and gurgling from the wound.

The guard fell face down in a swiftly-spreading pool. He spent his last few seconds coughing up blood and scrabbling his boots ineffectually on the ground. The smell of blood and piss filled the air.

Bill had hogtied the boy to make sure he stayed put. The kid started to moan quietly.

“Hey, we need to shut him up. Whaddaya think?”

“Hold on a sec,” said Mac. He unlaced the dead guard’s boots and pulled them off. He yanked the corpse’s socks off and tossed them to Bill. “Gag him with these.”

Bill balled the guard’s reeking socks and shoved them into the boy’s mouth. The kid had no choice but to lie quietly until the mercs came back for him.

Time to take out the targets. There were two of them, Carlos Camacho and Eddie Herrera. Carlos was in his late 20’s and seriously hardcore. He was a major player in street gang drug activity in the western part of the state. He was wanted on several murder charges. His head was shaved but he wore a goatee and his arms were covered in tattoos. Bill and Mac, each watching through different windows, had no difficulty identifying him. He wore a white sleeveless t-shirt and tight white chinos. On his feet were expensive ostrich-skin cowboy boots.

Eddie had come up from Mexico to facilitate the flow of the drugs to Carlos. On his arrival, he’d found a rival supplier trying to make inroads with Carlos. He’d resolved the issue by leaving the rival and his entourage of guards alone—as dismembered corpses in a ravine. He was here tonight to work out the final details of the deal with Carlos in a place where they wouldn’t be interrupted.

He had no clue that both the deal and his life were about to be cut off.

Eddie was in his early 30’s and was beautiful to look at. His large brown eyes with long lashes had looked into the death stare of many men without losing the charm of innocence. His face, though, was hard and cold, showing the killer inside. He wore a long-sleeved western shirt tucked into tight blue jeans that sported a large belt buckle. His cowboy boots were dusty and plain, far less costly that the ones sported by Carlos.

The mercs quickly got the drop on their targets. The door splintered as soon as Mac applied his boot to it. He and Bill burst into the main room of the cabin, aiming their silenced handguns, taking Carlos and Eddie by surprise. The thugs were helpless.

“On your knees, assholes!” shouted Mac.

Then went down on their knees and raised their hands. Since the intruders were wearing paramilitary gear, Carlos and Eddie thought they were some branch of law enforcement. They foresaw legal issues, loss of time and money.

They didn’t see death staring them in the face—but they would, very soon.

Mac held the thugs at gunpoint while Bill frisked them. He did it thoroughly, making each man moan by squeezing the bulges between their legs. Nothing wrong with a man having a little fun on the job.

Neither Carlos nor Eddie was surprised when the handcuffs went on; they expected it as part of the arrest process. Mac was still pointing his gun at them, forcing them to keep their faces to the wall. They could hear Bill moving things behind them but had no idea what he was doing.

They soon found out. After a couple of minutes, Mac had them turn around. In the center of the room, a black nylon cord had been draped over a rafter. Each end of the cord terminated in a slip-knot loop, hanging about eight feet off the ground. Beneath each loop was a chair.

Even being forced up onto the chairs and having the loops placed around their necks didn’t faze the hardened thugs—they prided themselves on their reputation as tough motherfuckers and expected a little psychological torture in pursuit of a confession. The first conscious awareness they had that this wasn’t an ordinary arrest didn’t come until Mac and Bill had unzipped their captives’ pants and pulled out their thick, uncut cocks.

It was also their last conscious awareness. The mercs kicked away the chairs. After that, it was desperate, futile, primal fight for life.

Carlos and Eddie died a horrible, lingering death. With their hands bound but their legs free, they kicked at each other in their maddened struggle for breath.

Carlos had the strong, fit body of a street thug. This made him suffer longer. He jerked and kicked at his end of the rope, feeling Eddie die beside him. His face became congested and blue, with foam boiling from his open, swollen lips. His thick tool was fully erect.

Next to him, Eddie was also dancing on air, his boots flailing wildly beneath him. The slipknot had tightened agonizingly around his neck, causing great folds to form in the skin of the throat. Eddie’s thirteen-inch throat was constricted to a circumference of about five inches.

The blood, unable to escape, backed up in Eddie’s head. Vessels ruptured in his eyes and nose and his face turned black. His tongue and his bloodshot eyes bulged. A trickle of blood from the nose dripped onto the tip of his tongue. Like Carlos, his massive dick was standing up straight.

Carlos had stopped kicking. With his boots together, pointed down at the floor a couple of feet beneath him, he was arcing his body violently at the waist. He wasn’t ready to give up the battle for his life yet.

Eddie was. After a couple of convulsions, all Eddie could feel was burning agony in his throat and more burning agony in his cock. The sensation in his dick grew uncontrollably. As searing pain and death overwhelmed him, Eddie was unaware that cum had erupted from his cock in a steady stream. It shot up like a fountain and splattered back down onto all four of them. Several jets went up before Eddie’s spasms slowed and he dangled limply. The cum stains on his boots were washed off a moment later when his bladder voided post-mortem and piss flowed down his legs.

Mac pulled his straining cock out, already oozing with precum. He almost shot his wad watching Eddie die. He turned to Bill.

“You ready to finish off this little punk?” he asked.

Bill nodded. He was already beating his meat. He reached out and grabbed Carlos’s rigid dick.

Carlos’s body had let him down. It refused to let him die easy. The world had gone gray and soundless explosions burst inside his head but he was still conscious. Eddie’s spunk had splattered on his face and Carlos knew what that meant. He’d strangled men before and had seen them shoot as they died.

Carlos felt Bill’s hand on his cock, felt the smooth leather tactical glove stroke his shaft. He resisted the urge to shoot the seed bubbling up in his balls, but his dick was being controlled by automatic reflexes. He was getting jacked off as he died and he was going to blow his load whether he wanted to or not.

Carlos gave a vigorous jerk, thrusting his cock forward at Bill. It spat out a wad of cum, catching Bill full in the face. At the same time, Mac, pounding his meat furiously, shot his own load over Carlos’s legs and boots.

Bill didn’t even have to touch himself. He gushed his load when he caught Carlos’s dying facial. He continued to yank the thick rod in his hand. Carlos’s eyes rolled back in his head. Foamy spittle had run from the corner of his mouth and dripped from his jaw. Each tug on his meat was rewarded by another spurt of cum.

Bill grabbed the thug’s legs and jerked them downwards, hard. There was a thick cracking sound. Carlos felt sharp, stabbing pain in his neck and sank into the nothingness of death. His neck had stretched and his body went rigid at the moment of death, shooting out one last spray of sperm that splashed down Bill’s chest.

It took a few minutes for Mac and Bill to catch their breath. They cleaned themselves in the cabin’s washroom before retrieving Jose, who was still hogtied on the ground outside. They put him to work moving the bodies.

At gunpoint, they forced him into the driver’s seat of one of the cars. Bill sat next to him; Mac sat behind, the muzzle of his gun against the back of the boy’s head. He had to drive out to the first pair of corpses and load them into the trunk, then work his way back to the cabin. On the way down, they forced him to drive over Ginger’s body, still lying in the middle of the road.

Jose stopped whimpering, but terror was growing inside of him. He’d thought he was tough because he’d shanked a couple of dudes. This level of cold-bloodedness was beyond him. He was still too young to be this hard.

At each kill, Mac stayed inside the car with his gun on Jose as long as he was visible. Bill got out and had his gun in point-blank range of the kid the entire time. Jose had to drag each body to the car and lift it into the trunk. Every time he bent over a body, his eyes met the horror-filled death stare of the corpse and his panic increased.

They left the bodies in the car when they got back to the cabin. Taking a spade that was lying by the side of the building, they marched Jose into the woods. After about two hundred yards, they found what they were looking for. It was a clear spot, on the side of a hill overlooking a dry creek bed. Here they forced Jose to dig a pit.

The boy was almost hysterical now. Deep down, he knew that there was no way he’d survive this night. He had only one hope to hold on to, that his uncle was somehow all right and would save him. He hadn’t been inside the cabin yet.

That one hope was enough. He would still struggle for his worthless life. He sobbed in terror, but he dug the pit his own corpse would rot in.

When he was finished, shaking with exhaustion and with his grimy face streaked with his tears, they forced him to drag the corpses up one by one and throw them into the pit. Jose slowly emptied the car. By the time he’d pulled up the last body, the blood-caked hardman outside the cabin door, he had barely enough strength left to roll it into the pit. The corpses had been tossed in at random, boots on faces, groins to asses. The young punks had ended their worthless lives violently and were being left to rot like garbage.

Mac and Bill allowed Jose a little rest before taking him back to the cabin. They shoved him through to broken door and the first thing Jose saw was his uncle, still hanging from the beam. Carlos was dangling next to him, his neck grotesquely elongated. Jose fell to his knees, the last spark of hope dying inside him.

Mac cut the cord over the rafter and the bodies hit the floor with a thud. Jose dragged one body to the pit and Bill dragged the other.

When it was done, Mac made Jose stand at the edge of the pit and pull out his cock. His six inches of meat drooped in terror.

“Little hard-ass punk—can’t even get it up!” jeered Mac. “C’mere, Bill, let’s see if we can’t have a little fun offin’ this bitch.”

Mac wrapped a thin wire garrote around the kid’s neck and pulled it tight. The wire bit into the flesh, causing thin streams of blood to streak Jose’s throat. The boy sank to his knees, his hands clawing at his throat. Bill knelt beside him, tugging on his dick.

Jose was aware he was being jacked off, but the knife-like pain that shut off his air was more immediate. As his eyes bulged, everything grew dark and the edges of his vision shrank to a small vibrating circle. He could see his uncle’s twisted, blackened face staring back at him from the pit, Eddie’s own cum drying to a glaze on his face. Jose knew what was happening to him; when he shot his load, he knew he was dying. Before his sight vanished into oblivion, he saw his spunk raining in showers over the bodies in the pit.

Neither Bill not Mac had so much as undone their flies. Both had creamed their boxers as Jose hosed down the corpses with sperm. They rolled his body into the pit and left it the like the others to decay into a stinking pile of meat.

They returned to the cabin to clean themselves again and then started back to their local base. Time to send out word that they were ready for another job.